Walking the Dog

by Bernard Maclaverty

  ‘Yeah – as far as I know.’

  ‘You’re gullible, son. Dead gullible. They’re a crowd of fuckin hypocrites. Liars.’

  There was a long silence. Declan inhaled the smoke and put his head back and blew it out as if he was in the confined space of a toilet cubicle. He would have to stay here and finish the cigarette. The Dean or somebody might be hanging around the changing rooms. He had been caught twice – in the Dean’s words – ‘engaging in his habit’. And caned both times. ‘You, of all people, should know that it stunts your growth.’

  ‘Liars and hypocrites,’ said the B-Special again.

  ‘They are not.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I know some priests and maybe . . .’

  ‘Maybe what?’

  ‘I’m maybe going to . . . be one.’

  ‘What – a priest?’ The B-Special laughed, a low kind of chuckle. ‘Fuck me.’ He shook his head from side to side. ‘I’m always putting my foot right in it.’ He cleared his throat. T find that very sad. A waste – because you were shaping up as all right of a lad to me. What’s your name?’

  ‘Declan.’

  ‘Declan what?’

  ‘Declan MacEntaggart.’

  The B-Special laughed, this time out loud, and said,

  ‘You’d better be a priest because you’ll not get too many jobs with a name like that. Are you a boarder or a day-boy?’

  ‘A boarder.’

  ‘From where?’

  ‘Ardboe.’

  ‘Fucksake. Where’s that?’

  ‘Lough Neagh – near Cookstown.’

  ‘That’s Republican territory up there. Crowd of rough men, by all accounts.’

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘Glengormley.’ The B-Special unslung his gun and set it barrel up against the foot of the wall. He then hunkered down to smoke his cigarette. His head was now almost on a level with Declan’s. ‘See this,’ he said, nodding at the wall. ‘You get bored out of your fuckin mind at this.’

  ‘You weren’t scouting for any team.’

  ‘Only taking the piss. I wanted you to make a couple of good saves. I was bored outa my mind up here.’

  Declan felt spits of rain on his bare legs. The few saves he had made earlier had covered his haunch and side in black wet muck. Goalmouth cinders left fine scores of blood on his knees. He tried to get to the end of his cigarette. He took several quick puffs at it so that it became hot and soft.

  ‘You’re rushing that,’ said the B-Special. He straightened up from his crouched position.

  ‘It’s freezin. I gotta go. The rain’s starting.’ Declan tossed the lit cigarette on the grass and squashed it with the studs of his boot.

  ‘When are you going to give me that back?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The fag.’

  ‘You’re taking the piss again.’

  ‘I’m not fuckin made of money. You owe me one, kid. I’ll be here tomorrow afternoon again. Same time.’ The B-Special finished his cigarette and spun it away into darkness.

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘The whole school is on silent retreat tomorrow.’

  ‘Silent retreat? What in the name of God’s that?’

  ‘A day when people don’t talk. They pray.’

  ‘Sounds like an army. Tip-toeing. Backwards.’ He laughed and so did Declan.

  ‘How can I give you back your fag – if I don’t even know who you are – or what you look like?’

  The B-Special changed his position and suddenly a bright torch shone in Declan’s eyes. The B-Special turned it on himself, lighting up his face from below. Declan could barely see because his eyes were recovering from the sudden glare. Bright spits of rain crossed its beam.

  ‘That’s me,’ said the B-Special. ‘Special Constable Irvine Todd.’ He looked about nineteen but was probably older. He had one of those young faces – so young that he tried to age it with a moustache.

  ‘Maybe see you,’ said Declan and danced down the slope sideways. He shook some coins from his cap and pulled it tightly on his head. The B-Special shouted after him.

  ‘Hey!’ Declan turned. The torch beam wobbled across the high wall. ‘This never happened.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You and me – talking. It’s against the rules, fuck them. Okay?’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Declan. Constable Irvine Todd was shining his torch at the wall, wiggling it, gliding the bright circle away from him until it became a bright ellipse then plucking it back again.

  ‘Bloody eejit,’ said Declan. He was now over the wire and running towards the light of the changing rooms.

  When it began to get dark Declan headed for the track. A flock of starlings swooped over the jail wall and condensed as it changed direction. There were only one or two boys walking round – on their own because of the silence. A uniformed guard was standing at the foot of the jail wall, partly hidden by bushes. Declan walked past him once, trying to see if it was Special Constable Irvine Todd. This guy wore the peak of his hat pulled down low on his face and was at such a distance he could have been anybody. If Declan climbed the fence and sneaked up and it wasn’t the one he knew the guy might shoot him. B-men had a reputation for being trigger-happy. The starlings settled in the trees at the far side of the track and began chattering. Declan waited and stared up at the B-Special.

  ‘Hey!’ It felt ridiculous because Declan spoke the word instead of shouting it. The B-Special turned his head.

  ‘It’s you again.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I’m dying for a smoke, son.’

  Declan looked all round then stepped over the wire. He was screened from the track now by the bushes.

  ‘The excitement up here’s been fierce. My nerves is jangling. Three murders and a rape and ten breakouts.’ Declan put his hand in his pocket and produced the cigarettes. A white packet of Senior Service. ‘Jesus, where do you get the packets of five?’

  ‘The day-boys go down for us. I told him ten but he musta been deaf.’ Todd produced his Zippo lighter and took a cigarette from the packet.

  ‘Whatcha mean the dayboys go down for you?’

  ‘We can’t. We’re not allowed out.’ Declan slid the flap closed.

  ‘Why not?’

  Declan shrugged. ‘School rules – boarders’ rules.’

  ‘They don’t trust apprentice priests?’

  ‘Not all of us are going on for the priesthood.’

  ‘Fuck that for a lark.’ Declan was putting the thin packet back in his pocket. ‘Are you not having one yourself?’

  ‘Naw – ’ Declan looked over his shoulder. ‘I’ve gotta go.’

  ‘For fucksake. I’ll look a right prick standing here smoking on my own.’

  ‘It’s a bit risky.’

  ‘Have a cigarette, big lad. If anybody objects I’ll blow their legs off.’ He slapped his gun with the flat of his hand. ‘Come on.’ He flicked the lighter and held it out to Declan. In the wind the flame fluttered blue within the metal guard. Declan took out the packet again and got a cigarette. He hurried to light it.

  ‘Thanks.’ He cupped the cigarette in the palm of his hand and nodded at the gun. ‘What is it, anyway?’

  ‘A gun.’ Declan smiled. The B-Special said, ‘A nine millimetre Sten. They make the handles outa paper clips.’

  ‘It’s like your lighter. All those holes in the barrel.’

  ‘You might as well have a fucking spear. No accuracy. You just can’t keep it down.’ He imitated firing the gun from his waist. ‘Dju-dju-dju-dju – a figure of eight pattern. No matter how hard you try you can’t keep it down – it goes all over the fuckin place.’

  ‘I know nothing about guns,’ said Declan. He felt safer crouching down. The B-Special leaned against the jail wall.

  ‘What did you say you were doing today?’

  ‘A silent retreat.’

  ‘That’s it.’ The B-Special snapped his fingers. ‘I w
as trying to remember the name for my Ma. A silent retreat. I couldn’t remember.’

  ‘Were you talking to your. . . mother about. . . ?’

  ‘Aye, last night. I says “Ma, you’ll never believe it but I was talking to somebody who’s going to be a Roman Catholic priest.” I like to tease her. It drives her round the bend. She’s a fierce oui bigot.’ He shook his head and laughed. ‘Tell me this – what’s the point? What good’s it going to do anybody?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Silence. Not speaking?’

  There was a pause.

  ‘It allows you to listen to what God is saying to you.’

  ‘You didn’t think that one up yourself.’ Todd stared at him. ‘That’s Roman Catholic priest talk, if ever I heard it.’ Declan didn’t answer. ‘And what did he – with a capital aitch – say to you today?’

  ‘This is not a subject to joke about. It’s private.’

  ‘Point taken – it’s like sex. What’s your name again?’

  ‘Declan.’

  ‘Tell me this, Declan, do you intend to get your hole, before you become a priest?’

  ‘Don’t be so bloody filthy.’ Declan straightened up from his crouching position with the intention of going. The cigarette was too big to throw away and he couldn’t walk down onto the track with it. He looked at it between his fingers.

  ‘Okay, okay. Stay where you are. I like to take the piss now and again. But you’re beginning to sound a bit like my Ma.’

  ‘Naw, really. I better be going.’

  ‘Getting on your high horse, eh? Grammar School boy tells one of Her Majesty’s Special Constables to get stuffed.’

  ‘It’s not that. I don’t like filth.’

  ‘Like what?’

  Declan shrugged.

  ‘Sex things . . . things like that are just . . .’

  ‘It’s the world, son. You’d better get to know it if you’re gonna spend the rest of your life tidying it up. You better know what happens beneath the blankets – every fuckin push and pull of it – before you go telling people what they’re not allowed to do.’

  ‘Shakespeare didn’t have to murder somebody before he wrote “Macbeth”.’

  ‘You’re trying to blind me with science now.’ Declan looked down at his feet, trying not to laugh. The worn patches of his black leather shoes had gone pale with walking through the wet grass. ‘You’ve got to know the ins and outs of everything.’ The B-Special paused. ‘Do you know there’s a brave bit of rummaging goes on down by the handball alleys.’

  ‘Rummaging?’

  ‘Boys rummaging in each other’s trousers.’

  ‘You’re making that up.’

  ‘Swear to God. I can see it all from up here. Queer as fuck – these boarding schools.’

  ‘Look, I shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘And I shouldn’t be talking to you. But I am, ampta?’

  The lights came on in the Republican wing of the jail. Declan threw his cigarette into the grass.

  ‘I’d better go.’

  ‘Do you have any friends in there?’

  ‘Where?’

  The B-Special nodded to the lit windows.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you a Republican?’

  ‘I’d like to see a United Ireland, if that’s . . .’

  ‘How could you have a United Ireland with you and me in it?’ He laughed out loud and punched the air. ‘Fuck the Pope and No Surrender.’ Declan smiled at the slogans. ‘Nahhh – you’re too nice a young lad to be friends with that scum. Sometimes I think this wall’s here to stop people breaking in and lynching the bastards. Here – have another.’ The B-Special held out a packet of ten Gallagher’s Blues. Declan refused.

  ‘Two in a row makes me dizzy.’

  ‘You’re the first Roman Catholic I’ve ever talked to – apart from one guy in work.’

  ‘Work?’

  ‘Aye, this caper is only part-time. In the mornings I do a milk round – white coat in the mornings, black at night. The money’s no great shakes but it’s better than nothing. If the milk round paid more I wouldn’t have to be standing here like some kind of a fuckin doo-lally talking to you.’

  ‘Thanks a lot.’

  ‘But there’s advantages – barmen are shit scared of us. A couple of us go into a pub in uniform and the drink’s all free – and as much as you can smoke. Here.’ He held out his packet of cigarettes again. Declan hesitated. ‘Are you too good for my brand? I suppose you’d smoke them if they were Gallagher’s Greens.’

  ‘Naw – naw it’s not that.’

  ‘At least it’s a packet of ten.’

  Declan took a cigarette and was about to light it when he heard something down on the track. He paused and stared into the darkness.

  ‘Wait.’ The B-Special clunked the lid of the Zippo back into place putting out the flame. He said,

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘I dunno.’

  The figures came closer, their feet impacting on the cinder track. Declan could now hear their voices, then he recognised the deep laugh.

  ‘It’s the Dean,’ he said, crouching down. He heard the other voice indistinctly, but enough to know who it was.

  ‘So what?’

  ‘Shh . . .’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ said the B-Special. Declan shushed him again. The B-Special’s voice changed to a whisper. ‘Christ boy, you’re really afraid of these guys.’ He hunkered down beside where Declan was crouching and slapped the metal of the Sten with his open hand. ‘Do you want me to cut them in half with this?’ Declan shook his head and put a warning finger to his lips. The walking priests were right below them now. Declan imagined he could see their white collars at the same height in the dark. Their voices were low and he could not make out what they were saying. They passed and Declan stood up again. The B-Special whispered,

  ‘Which one’s the Dean?’

  ‘The nearest.’

  ‘And the other one?’

  ‘Father Cairns – teaches Latin. He’s okay.’

  ‘No Jesuit’s okay.’

  ‘They’re not Jesuits.’

  ‘They’re all fuckin Jesuits as far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘You don’t listen.’

  The B-Special leaned forward and spun a spark from the Zippo wheel with his thumb.

  ‘You don’t really believe in God, do you?’

  Declan lit his cigarette and breathed out the smoke. ‘I do. Very much so.’ He looked after the priests on the track. He could hear them faintly but he could no longer see them. He cleared his throat and said, ‘The world is a very complex place. Right?’

  ‘Aye, one-way streets . . . singing . . .’ The B-Special paused and thought. ‘And fuckin glass lampshades with dead flies in them. My Ma hates that.’

  ‘Well, something as complex as the world just couldn’t happen. There must be a supreme intelligence behind it. Right?’ The B-Special nodded in an exaggerated fashion, mocking Declan’s seriousness. Declan ignored him.

  ‘How many times would you have to take all the bits of a watch and throw them up in the air before they’d land and start telling the time?’

  ‘A hell of a lot. One hell of a lot.’

  ‘So . . .’

  ‘So what?’

  The argument as he remembered it being outlined in Canon Sheehan’s Apologetics had seemed simple. He hesitated.

  ‘I mean if the world is as complex as a watch – which you have just agreed – then a watchmaker – aye ee – God, or some intelligence called God, had to put it together.’

  ‘That is SO FUCKIN STUPID I can hardly believe you said it, Declan. The most complicated thing I know is my fuckin milk round. Who made that up? God? It just happened. People who drink milk live in different places. It’s as simple as that.’

  ‘I think you’re being purposefully stupid.’

  ‘Oh you do, do you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The world is not complex. It’s dead fuckin simple. A stone is a stone. A
nd a wall is a wall.’ He slapped the wall with the flat of his hand.’ And this wall is full of fuckin stones. Am I right? Is that complex or simple?’

  ‘There’s no point,’ said Declan. He began backing down the slope.

  ‘You’re so like a Roman Catholic priest, Declan – I think you’ll be one.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘I think you’ll go the whole hog and become a Jesuit.’

  ‘I’m away back now.’

  ‘Why would anyone want to be a Roman Catholic priest? It’s SO totally fuckin perverse – God gave you a dick TO USE.’

  ‘You’re being filthy again.’

  ‘No – I’m serious.’

  ‘You don’t understand.’

  ‘I certainly do not. I need to have certain items explained to me.’

  ‘God gave us appetites. By abstaining – by denying ourselves things we become stronger people. Going off sweets in Lent, kinda thing. Discipline. It doesn’t mean to say there’s anything wrong with sweets.’

  ‘Why don’t you abstain from learning then, from studying. Why don’t you stay stupid – like me? That’d be a great sacrifice. For fucksake, who do you think you’re kidding? I left school at fourteen and it was the wisest move I ever made.’

  ‘I think you’ve an inferiority complex.’

  ‘Huh! Listen to him. Listen to the second-class citizen,’ said the B-Special. ‘I suppose you want me to be an A-Special.’

  ‘There’s no such thing,’ said Declan.

  ‘There fuckin IS. Was. In the twenties. They were needed to keep you bastards getting too big for your boots.’ He stabbed his forefinger at Declan’s face. ‘What age did you tell me you were, son?’

  ‘Seventeen next month.’

  ‘Well, stop fuckin patting me on the head. You have that Papish tone in your voice.’

  ‘You’re far too touchy. I wasn’t meaning any of that.’

  ‘So – I’m far too touchy – eh?’ He thought for a moment then raised the Sten gun and swung it slowly round until the muzzle pointed at the boy. ‘I’m a man with an inferiority complex?’ The bones of Declan’s chest felt as if they were about to cave in. He said,

  ‘I don’t know much about guns but I know that’s definitely not allowed.’

  ‘I never was one for the rules, was I, Declan?’ He was using the gun like a rifle, sighting along the barrel at Declan’s heart. They stood like that for what seemed a long time. Declan was afraid that he was going to faint. He kept swallowing.